Comrades in Arms
by Ramzes
Summary: They are not meant for romance. Are they meant for friendship? Certainly. Are they meant for love? Maybe. But, above all, they are comrades-in-arms. Emily/Dyer


**Disclaimer: Yes, I own Temeraire, Lily, Maximus, my beloved Iskierka and everyone else. Oh no, it's that damned alarm clock again! I am now fully awake and I don't own anyone.**

Comrades-in-Arms

_21 June 1813…_

"They will outnumber them if we don't go there as soon as possible!" Andrew Davidson roared, so he would be heard over the wild noise of the battle.

Peter Dyer did not answer at once. He was looking at the Petit Chevalier whose back had become a centre of a furious battle: about fifteen people of Iskierka's crew had made the terrifying unharnessed leap there and were now engaged in close fighting with the defending Frenchmen. They were solidly prevailing in numbers, but the problem of the French dragon had not gone unnoticed: there was a Pecheur-Raye hurrying to his aid and if she managed to go close enough, the Frenchmen would turn the tide of battle against the boarders. And Captain Granby could do little to help them now, since Iskierka had to defend herself against four French dragons. _Every captain and dragon in France must have had an order to do everything they can against our only fire breather_, Dyer thought bitterly. _Bloody buggers_. Yet, if there had ever been a dragon who was born to fight, that was Iskierka. The Kazilik had always advocated attack as the best defence of all, ever since she was first hatched. Dyer almost found himself smiling, remembering that remarkable hatching – amidst a battle, in the middle of a foreign camp, with almost no food and an angry Temeraire, refusing to let go either of his food, _or_ Granby.

With a loud swish, Vindicatus' wings started beating in circles while he was heading at his top speed towards the Chevalier. Dyer drew his sword and got ready to unlock his carabiner. The excitement and anxiety of the battle threw his weariness into the background. They had been flying from England to Spain at frantic speed for days, barely having any rest and having _none_ for the last seven hours, for they had arrived to the city of Vitoria just in time to take part in the beginning of the battle. The dragon was exhausted and so was his captain, as well as his crew, but it would be well worth it, if the Duke of Wellington won against Joseph Bonaparte, Napoleon's brother: it was very likely that the combined Anglo-Portuguese and Spanish armies could break French power in Spain. Besides, they could not let their comrades fight alone. _Obviously, I've spent too much time with Temeraire_, Dyer thought briefly, while Vindicatus was taking position alongside the enemy dragon.

"Boarders away!" Vindicatus' captain roared; without the slightest delay, the men unlocked their carabiners and took the dangerous leap that could very much end with their terrifying fall from four hundred feet in the air.

A moment later, Dyer heard a yell that could not be mistaken for anything else: someone had fallen. He did not look to see who – there would be enough time for that later. Instead, he concentrated on making his own leap onto the Chevalier's back, not letting the Frenchmen who were boarding from the Pecheur on the other side of the dragon out of his sight. His mind briefly registered the firm surface under his feet; for now, he had escaped the fatal fall. He immediately slashed at the Frenchman who came running toward him, and saw him falling. He didn't think he'd killed him, but it didn't matter – he would never be able to hold a sword or a pistol with his heavily wounded hand, not during this battle, anyway, so Dyer did not lose more time with him – he hurried as fast as he could for the middle of the Chevalier, where English and French were engaged in bloody struggle. He shot a bullet at a young lieutenant who was aiming his sword at the back of an Englishman's head and when the Frenchman fell dead in his straps, the Englishman spared a moment to throw a look over his shoulder. Dyer recognized her immediately: Roland. She was mouthing something that he did not quite catch.

A terrifying roar emerged from their left side. Both English and French looked in this direction just in time to see a Flecha-del-Fuego who was flying straight for one of the dragons who were attacking Iskierka. There was no way for Spanish and English captains and dragons to communicate through flag signals, because they had been taught different signalizations, but the Spanish captain, on the back of his dragon, was waving his hands in wild gestures, making sure that Granby and Iskierka had gotten his intentions right, which they had – Iskierka was a very clever dragon, although no one could take her for too obedient one, and no one who had served with Granby – and Dyer had, with Temeraire - would consider him a fool. Suddenly, the Grand Chevalier found himself enveloped by two giant torrents of flame at the same time by the two fire breathers. He roared again and Dyer's ears rang. He wretched himself from the horrible fascination of the sight a moment too late. The next thing he saw was Emily Roland's pistol, aimed at his head. "Are you mad, Roland?" he yelled, but to no avail: there was a loud shot and he felt the bullet moving the air around him. He touched his head.

"I didn't hit you," Emily uttered.

"Only by an inch! The bullet passed through my hair!"

"Would you rather have it killing you?"

He whirled around and quickly cut the straps of the French who Emily had shot, before kicking him off. A new roar of agony cut the air and Dyer recognized it: Vindicatus.

He couldn't do anything about him now, though. They had to neutralize the Petit Chevalier and there was only one way for that: they had to capture his captain alive. Judging by the sounds behind them, showing a bloody fight, the French boarders had managed to latch on. They had to act as quickly as possible.

He headed for Emily and the boarders from Vindicatus' crew who were ahead of him joined these from Iskierka's. Their plan of action was arranged quickly. It was very simple indeed: one third of them would go for the captain, and the others would protect them from behind. "I'll have your back," Roland told Dyer, her face glistening with sweat and blood that, after a quick look of concern, he dismissed to be hers.

He nodded briefly and moved forward, along with the others. Despite the sounds of the close battle behind him, he did not look back – there was no need. Not when she had his back.

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_A few hours later…_

The sounds of the wild celebrations could surely be heard miles away. Men and dragons, English, Portuguese, and Spaniards alike were singing battle marches, everyone in their own languages. There was enough rum to make for the ten years ration of the whole British Navy. Everyone was ecstatic: they had jointly won the Battle of Vitoria, they had finally driven the French away from Spain; combined with the catastrophic Russian campaign, it was due to be a hard blow for Napoleon.

Emily found Dyer in a small clearing, empty from both people and dragons and somewhat remote from the battlefield and the English camp. "Here you are," she said. "I've been looking for you for hours."

He shrugged and held out a hand. She took it and sat next to him. For a while, they didn't say anything, just looked at each other under the moonlight. This night, the moon and the stars were shining especially brightly, as if they, too, were celebrating the defeat of the Frenchmen.

They hadn't seen each other in more than five months – he had been flying with Vindicatus, she – with Iskierka. They had both flown all over Europe, they had both participated in battles, and they had much to say to each other, but not now. In this last battle, the English had given the most numerous casualties, they had lost too many people.

And dragons.

He produced a bottle of rum, already half-empty. "My orders were to fly with him," he said. "No one said anything about being a witness to his agonizing death. I decided to get drunk!"

He passed the bottle and Emily took it without hesitation. Vindicatus' agony was still fresh in her mind. The loss of a dragon you've known was always a hard thing to go through. It was even worse for those who served with this dragon.

"Captain Berkley asked for you to be assigned to Maximus' crew," she said, trying to cheer him up.

"That's good." Judging by his voice, he did not think it was so good. "How is Iskierka?" he asked.

"She's restored enough to claim that she could have done without that Spanish dragon's assistance," Emily answered.

Dyer smiled faintly. "This is a good thing to know." He knew firsthand just how bloodthirsty and overestimating her strength Iskierka was. The fact that she had regained her stubbornness was a good sign. "Is everyone else all right?" he asked. He knew that they were – he had taken care to know that for sure before retreating with the bottle, but he suddenly needed to hear it spoken aloud.

Roland seemed to understand. "Yes," she said. "Captain Laurence was wounded in his thigh, but it isn't dangerous. And one of these fire breathers clawed at Lily's right front leg quite badly, but she's had worse. She will recover."

Dyer nodded.

The rum was strong and unwatered; Emily suddenly realized that she had not eaten anything all day. It was going to her head faster than she thought possible, but she didn't care. By the looks of him, Dyer was already drunk enough, but then, he had been trying to achieve just that. She felt a sharp pang of tenderness and sympathy, so she reached for his hand and squeezed it hard, offering the only comfort she could. Her face was wet and so was his. "Do you think of Morgan?" she suddenly asked.

Startled, Dyer slowly shook his head. "I haven't thought about him in months," he answered.

"I dreamed of him last night. It's always this way before a battle," Emily confessed. "I dream of them all – Morgan, and Digby, and Levitas. Sometimes, I even dream of that scamp Rankin."

Dyer looked at her, shocked. "It must have been quite the nightmare. May the bastard rot in hell," he added with feeling and they drank for that.

After a while, they slumped into the grass and she rested her head on his chest. He held her tightly, his face buried in her shingled blond hair. She was not smelling of perfume, like some of the other girls who he had known in his eighteen years long life, but she did not smell of battle either – she must have scrubbed away the stench somewhere in a stream, just like he had done himself. "They lost Spain," he finally said. "And Napoleon lost too many people in Russia. This war will be over soon. He cannot hold out for much longer."

She raised her head to look at him. "Can't he?" she asked softly. "I've been listening to this since before I was a cadet. Sometimes I think – I think he can – "

"Not this time," Dyer said firmly. "It will be different. It must be." His voice had become a whisper, as if he was trying to convince himself of that. Emily could almost read his mind: _won't he come with a different trick at the last moment?_ The war with France had been going on since before they were born and Napoleon had always managed to keep things going. _Will he do it again?_

They kept holding each other for a while. "Tomorrow morning, you must go at Captain Berkley to get acquainted with his requirements," she finally murmured. "We must rise with the sun."

"No problem," Dyer answered, and kissed her. During the long years of training, they had developed the skill to wake up whenever they wanted to. "There is still time – "

Her laugher was deep and unfeminine, while her fingers were working on the buttons of his shirt. The time he was talking about was short indeed, but they had learned to make the best of what they had. Tomorrow, she might need to leave – or he. When they would meet again depended on the orders they would be given. It was likely that they would spend months or even years away from each other and that was fine with them. She belonged to her battles, he – to his own. That was the way it was with the Corps, and it was right. And yet, they returned to each other again and again, whenever they had the chance, had been doing it ever since they were both sixteen. Emily was not so stupid as to think that she was the only girl in his life – he certainly wasn't the only boy in hers, but that fact did not disturb her. He was the one who _mattered_. They had been through too much together – their service as cadets, as runners, their adventures in Istanbul and Africa and later – in different battles. That was a bond that was too special to be broken by the standards of the traditional English society, to which they did not belong.

Dyer's thoughts were similar to hers, but they were slightly different anyway. He thought of the girls he sometimes dreamed of, especially during the long, exhausting flights: they satdreamily at the high windows or sangsentimental old songs with piano accompaniment, delicate and fragile like roses. But a girl who entered the battles next to him and had his back was something completely different, something that made him shudder. No fragility, no delicate beauty, and no polished manners could hold a candle to what he felt each time when he put his life, as a common practice, day after day, in her hands and held hers in his own.

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**That was my first try at a serious Temeraire fanfic. Do you think I managed Roland and Dyer?**** I really want to know.**

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